Chapter 1

They say the darkest hour is just before the dawn, but what if the dawn never comes? What if you’re lost in perpetual darkness, a netherworld between the living and the dead? Getting out of bed in the morning requires so much effort that on weekends you don’t even bother. And on those days when duty necessitates your presence in the world, all you can think about for the remainder of the day is returning to the sanctuary provided by those cotton sheets and down-filled pillows.

I slid slowly into the darkness, unaware of the long, long night ahead.

* * * *

It was May. I can’t remember the date and even if I could, it wouldn’t make any difference. These types of things don’t just appear. They fester beneath the surface until one day you simply become aware of their existence. They ambush you. By the time they reveal themselves, it’s too late. You are ensnared in the darkness with no flashlight and no map.

The morning began as most other mornings did. I woke up. I feel that’s always a good start. But I lingered in bed, reluctant to join the world. At some point my thoughts turned to the painting I was working on. I was pleased with the way it was going and if I finished it in time, I’d be able to include it in my upcoming exhibition at the Delaney Gallery. At once motivated, I climbed out of bed.

I padded naked into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. There were croissants on a plate in the refrigerator so I grabbed one and bit the end off. I couldn’t be bothered heating it up. That would take time and now I was up, I was eager to get on with my painting.

My studio was a wooden cabin near the north-east corner of my back garden. It was spacious, light, and airy. There were ceiling to floor windows along the front and down one side, and a vast skylight comprised a third of the roof. Behind the cabin was a thicket of trees and shrubs, and approaching it I felt as though I were approaching another world. I had no fear of being caught strolling naked across my back lawn by a curious neighbour since the fences on both sides of my yard were high and hidden by dense shrubbery. I felt completely at ease.

I pushed open the door. The room was thick with all the familiar smells of the artist—oil paint, turpentine, linseed oil. There was a paint smeared coat hanging on a hook by the door, but I left it there. It was going to be a scorcher and on days like that I preferred to work in the nude.

The canvas—a beach scene I was painting from photographs I’d taken two months earlier—was perched on a large easel in the corner where the two full-length windows met. I looked at it for a minute or two, assessing the work I’d done the previous day. Stepping back, I cocked my head to admire the way I’d executed the froth capping the curling waves. I was also pleased with the way I’d captured the sunlight reflecting on the water. The vast expanse of blue sky overhead bothered me though. It needed something. A seagull, perhaps.

I walked across to the wooden table where I kept my large collection of paints and brushes and pulled open one of the drawers. I took out an old biscuit tin with Prince Charles and Princess Diana on the lid and flipped it open. Inside was a mess of photographs, mostly of the sea. The sea was what I painted. I fossicked about until I’d found what I was looking for—seagulls. I twisted off a small piece of Blu-Tack and used it to fix the photos to the window beside the easel.

Finally, I was ready to commence painting.

Time meant nothing when I was working. I became lost in the brushstrokes. Sometimes I was only vaguely aware of the light fading as the sun began its descent into the western sky. My eyes would automatically adjust to the dimming light and I’d continue painting until it became impossible to see what I was doing.

I gave the gull an eye and stepped back to see what the finished sea bird did for the painting as a whole. I was pleased. Not only did it break up the swathe of blue at the top of the picture, but it also balanced the painting and gave it more depth. It was therefore a mystery to me as to why I was suddenly crying. Not sobbing. Crying. Tears were flooding down my cheeks. I couldn’t stop them. I wiped my eyes on the back of my arm then went across to the table to get a tissue. I blew my nose and still the tears fell.